"Please don't."--Sims, pleading constraint before amping his rehabilitation
I took a longer segment than anticipated doing background research, strolling through my older posts, looking for a quick lift with some polishing for Medium's curation team, and I have my work cut out for me. I've gotten better over time by treating my hotspot like a guerrilla maneuver, but in earlier years my clause connections have a muddled roll along. I don't envy the curation team its work, but if they're already an enemy, I wonder why I signed into the partnership. Early Medium users heralded the platform with a celebration of transhumanism, and I shrug, Queen Elizabeth waving her hand dismissively. Single user platforms are now voled into The Collective. Ed's curation team is a primitive borg vindilum. I already knew beforehand I took a dim view of cacophony and cascading causes. As a practical matter, even if I merge aesthetic and political philosophy as I do on this account over there, I need more surge protection, needing to view some films again, which is all very good, but hell's static indigence awaits, wide hungry mouth for the damned.
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Ulee's Tributary
"I'd take that into consideration Mr. Bailey, if this was a democracy."-- William Shatner, now a wily spokesman for CPAC cleaners
Even before I started this account, I'd track certain actors, particularly if they expired of cirrhosis of the liver before their time, attempting to gain insight. Peter Fonda was not one of them. Like Michael Douglas after him, Fonda was a pretty face with a shag haircut, engaging in a valiant, dismissive struggle in Futureworld, where Yul Brynner manages to be a better robot in this fraying and cosmetic liberal decade which does indeed seem to have ended in 1978, than Brent Spiner manages to be an android in the Clinton era, and no, this is not a swipe at Data's endearing naivety, only a suspicion that a machine with consciousness may really not wind up in an ontological category which humans would necessarily find favorable, and Brynner perhaps captured just a little better the malevolence of circuits and diodes simulating a gunfighter whose liberty was a facade, an entrapment, and an evil which could be defined as such exactly because it lacked dynamic of the soul. I have no need to reiterate admiration brushed off in my more energetic archives, (nothing if not energetic), about Ulee's Gold. I remember the drug addiction led to the punk show of force upon which Fonda's character prevailed. Certainly not every nuance of this quiet film's local color, and it was a better film for its self-depreciation, but Fonda never fixated me, not like Cassavetes, and did Gena Rowlands consider their match lucky, fortuitous? Or did John's alcoholism rate him as just another more incisive greaseball, as all Italians are? His performance in Rosemary's Baby on those crutches only offers up mitigating hints. Nonetheless, even if I never sought these answers in Fonda's demeanor, his passing Friday morning elicited a mournful, instinctive yowl. Something felled, it clangs in my head in my desperation to get out from under the thumb of the sterile black psychosis unto which I continue to weaken, in every withered African frame the cry of Kurtz, "the horror, the horror!"
This scoring pain Medium's generation shall never understand, as I was busy last week buying into their paywall. Before I kill myself, or decide to try to, some of my posts here may become more ambitious columns there, as if agony actually transmutes.
Even before I started this account, I'd track certain actors, particularly if they expired of cirrhosis of the liver before their time, attempting to gain insight. Peter Fonda was not one of them. Like Michael Douglas after him, Fonda was a pretty face with a shag haircut, engaging in a valiant, dismissive struggle in Futureworld, where Yul Brynner manages to be a better robot in this fraying and cosmetic liberal decade which does indeed seem to have ended in 1978, than Brent Spiner manages to be an android in the Clinton era, and no, this is not a swipe at Data's endearing naivety, only a suspicion that a machine with consciousness may really not wind up in an ontological category which humans would necessarily find favorable, and Brynner perhaps captured just a little better the malevolence of circuits and diodes simulating a gunfighter whose liberty was a facade, an entrapment, and an evil which could be defined as such exactly because it lacked dynamic of the soul. I have no need to reiterate admiration brushed off in my more energetic archives, (nothing if not energetic), about Ulee's Gold. I remember the drug addiction led to the punk show of force upon which Fonda's character prevailed. Certainly not every nuance of this quiet film's local color, and it was a better film for its self-depreciation, but Fonda never fixated me, not like Cassavetes, and did Gena Rowlands consider their match lucky, fortuitous? Or did John's alcoholism rate him as just another more incisive greaseball, as all Italians are? His performance in Rosemary's Baby on those crutches only offers up mitigating hints. Nonetheless, even if I never sought these answers in Fonda's demeanor, his passing Friday morning elicited a mournful, instinctive yowl. Something felled, it clangs in my head in my desperation to get out from under the thumb of the sterile black psychosis unto which I continue to weaken, in every withered African frame the cry of Kurtz, "the horror, the horror!"
This scoring pain Medium's generation shall never understand, as I was busy last week buying into their paywall. Before I kill myself, or decide to try to, some of my posts here may become more ambitious columns there, as if agony actually transmutes.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Hail the Hinderland
"She was tied to a tree and shot in the head."-- a forensic entomologist whose expertise is fascinating in a repulsive, macabre gawk
If I simply iterate racial slurs with repetitive vehemence like a raptor species, say a bald eagle, lacking capacity to embrace veterinary rehabilitation of its injuries, then I am just a shade closer to the finality of derangement which takes all our strength, debating plagiarizing myself, but that is double the effort in my end game of extraordinary duress, as if the curation team under Ev Williams will allow the grim reverberations of despair. Galahad doesn't realize the depth of my rage, my sheer relief at visualizing weaponizing this punishing machine, the worst fucking chair I ever had, against that stupid old bitch bellowing like a calving whale. Trying in vain to preserve what hearing I still have, the force of her screams set off my tinnitus, and I can't keep fighting my now crystallized hatred forever. I don't glorify in it, that this uncouth old woman contributes nothing to the world, and if someone likes me uses machine power to break her fucking legs, she deserves it; she isn't worth it, but any progressive who dares to tell me minorities who engage in such aberrant behaviors on a daily basis is my equal hasn't the slightest idea of what they are talking about. Common courtesy? She did not stop to think that many people here are ill, and don't need such volume in building front vocalizations. Vivian, another long term dead resident, told me I spoke too loudly with a great deal of frequency. That was just in terms of outside portico conversation. I no longer doubt that primal fictions like The Purge
have already seeded a reality we're starting to face, and it's the price of progressive totalitarianism. I'd sell my soul to see governmental contractors, led by the nose by the avarice driven Presbyterians, annihilated, all because I made lust driven, obstinate choices. If I run, even the idea of running, it is just too late, and I live in the greatest republic on earth. And yet, it's true, I wept for Morrison, more courageously sordid than I ever could be. She certainly would have been deplatformed for her "black bitch" of her first novel, driven insane by an incestuous rape.
If I simply iterate racial slurs with repetitive vehemence like a raptor species, say a bald eagle, lacking capacity to embrace veterinary rehabilitation of its injuries, then I am just a shade closer to the finality of derangement which takes all our strength, debating plagiarizing myself, but that is double the effort in my end game of extraordinary duress, as if the curation team under Ev Williams will allow the grim reverberations of despair. Galahad doesn't realize the depth of my rage, my sheer relief at visualizing weaponizing this punishing machine, the worst fucking chair I ever had, against that stupid old bitch bellowing like a calving whale. Trying in vain to preserve what hearing I still have, the force of her screams set off my tinnitus, and I can't keep fighting my now crystallized hatred forever. I don't glorify in it, that this uncouth old woman contributes nothing to the world, and if someone likes me uses machine power to break her fucking legs, she deserves it; she isn't worth it, but any progressive who dares to tell me minorities who engage in such aberrant behaviors on a daily basis is my equal hasn't the slightest idea of what they are talking about. Common courtesy? She did not stop to think that many people here are ill, and don't need such volume in building front vocalizations. Vivian, another long term dead resident, told me I spoke too loudly with a great deal of frequency. That was just in terms of outside portico conversation. I no longer doubt that primal fictions like The Purge
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Loosely on the Cuff
Did he have a noose in the background? -- Whoopi Goldberg
Having once complained about not having a favorite Marilyn Monroe picture, viewers might be surprised that I liked her youthful supporting role against Stanwyck Clash By Night.
In the movie, Stanwyck is all but a prototype Hillary Clinton, or Kamala Harris. In many ways this RKO stock reel is a sartorial grimace, suggesting monogamy is, after all, the best form of partnership despite the foibles of the human heart, and Stanwyck plays against her type, and deconstructs its regal queen aspects at the same time. She returns home to her seaport town, not so much humiliated as defeated, after her affair with a powerful politician grinds to a halt in New York, marries a lug who's a steady earner, and then, lacking other options, fucks his buddy who manages the movie theatre. Rinse, repeat, and see Marilyn as an innocent ingenue who doesn't stray far from Keith Andes as Stanwyck's more inflexible brother. Do I think Stanwyck's Doyle is overactively promiscuous? Certainly. She was a reigning matinee idol until she forgot her lines with Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds. Do I think the embattled Senator Harris is overly promiscuous, (or in harder morphemes, a slut)? Possibly, hence her prosecution of Backgate is at least problematic. She didn't sleep with Brown for money, but there was, nonetheless, a transactional collusion taking place, and I should have backstopped my ponies and aligned my facts before defending James Woods or Fournier on their "heels up Harris" segue. Let it be noted, for the record, that "noose" also connotes violence, just as it denotes memories of lynching. Just as slut is still a word, however, a noose is a complex knot, a simple technology. Did anyone protest to ABC that Whoopi's use of it threatened violence? Her use of it in defense of Biden certainly had a more direct correlation than my bold tweet.
Having once complained about not having a favorite Marilyn Monroe picture, viewers might be surprised that I liked her youthful supporting role against Stanwyck Clash By Night.
Saturday, August 3, 2019
Violence in the Voice
"And you will never touch her again." the Rose Armiger of Henry James
I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.
I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.
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